I had been feeling out-of-sorts for about four days or so. Crampy and bloated to the point where I could work and function, but it disturbed my sleep and was mildly uncomfortable a lot of the time. I knew I needed a good cleanout but didn't’t need or want the inevitable lecture from my wife about increasing fiber in my diet and getting more exercise. So I put it off, figuring I would feel better eventually.

I had given myself enemas in the past, with mixed results. Generally I could not inject more than a third of a bag of water before I was up and running for the toilet. When given enemas by my wife, the results were far better and I was frequently able to take an entire two quarts before having to empty. I just didn’t want to endure the lecture about ignoring all of her previous advice regarding my GI health just to get a ‘good’ enema.

By the evening of the fourth day, I had postponed the inevitable long enough. While my wife was out for a couple of hours attending her evening class, I retrieved the Davol Comfy fountain syringe from the linen closet and set about preparing an enema. I filled the sink with water, swished a bar of Ivory around until the mixture was cloudy, and started filling the bag with a cup. While filling the bag I noticed the rubber was a bit ‘tacky’ around the edge of the hanging hole, but when hooked over the shower rod, it held the bulging bag just fine.

After stripping the water from the hose and applying KY to the nozzle, I bent over the bathroom counter and inserted the enema nozzle. The clamp was released and the soapy water began its journey into my gut. While in that compromising position, trying my best to hold in the nozzle, fight the urge to expel, and massage the cramps, the hook cut through the hanging hole and the bag fell six feet to the floor. The explosion of soapy water was like a biblical flood, and the bathroom floor was drenched. I pulled out the nozzle but the urge to evacuate was so great that all I could do was sit on the wet toilet and watch while the water continued to leak everywhere; even out into the hall. What a disaster!

Eventually I was able to gather up many towels from the linen closet and soak up the flood, but I was too late to stop some of it from leaking through the floor to the bathroom ceiling below. I bundled up all of the wet towels, bath mat, and rugs and carried them down to the laundry. Returning to the scene of the crime, I mourned the loss of an old friend. The Davol had been around for nearly 30 years and the rubber had finally deteriorated and broken through the eye. I salvaged the components and committed the body of the old red bag to the bathroom trash can. I resigned myself to no relief that night from my bellyache.

Shortly thereafter, my wife returned from class and adjourned to the bathroom to take a shower before bed. Like a grave robber bearing a freshly dug cadaver, she soon came out of the bathroom bearing the corpse of the recently deceased enema bag. “What happened? I see the floor has recently been mopped, the rugs are changed, and this was in the garbage; what’s been going on?”

I reluctantly admitted that I had been feeling ‘off’ for a few days and was taking an enema to see if that helped. I showed her the broken eye and related the epic of the flood and the massive cleanup that followed. “How far along were you?” She asked. “Did the enema help or do you still need help?”

I told her that the bag had broken within the first cup of water and that it had accomplished little or nothing. “Well,” she said, “ I guess I’m going to Rite-Aid. I’ll be back.”

I waited with nervous anticipation for her arrival. When she did return, she was bearing a bag with a few small items. Too small to be a new fountain syringe and I hoped she did not just buy a couple of Fleets. She had me follow her to the bathroom where she unpacked the sack: a tube of lubricant, a bottle of fiber tablets, acidophilus tablets, and a box labeled ‘folding douche.’ “I got what they had,” she said, holding out the douche box. “I don’t think this has the right attachment for giving enemas, so I hope you didn't’t throw away the parts to the old bag or you’ll be getting the feminine douche tip.”

“That would be interesting,” I thought, but told her I has saved the hose and attachments. She opened the box and started filling the sink. I was greeted by the sight of a pink folding syringe, and whined to her about the girly color. She answered, “…and just who, outside this room, do you think is going to see what color our enema bag is? Where this is going, I don’t think color is a big concern.”

As I had done earlier, once the sink was full, she swished Ivory soap in the water and ladled it into the bag until it was swollen and full to the brim. She opened the clip and shot a stream of water into the tub, then took the time to top the bag off with the cup so it was again full to the top. She directed me to put some towels on the bed and followed me, bearing the full bag. Pulling the clothes tree close to the bed, she hung the bag about shoulder height, and told me to “Assume the position.”

I removed my trousers and boxers, and laid down on my left side, right leg cocked to present her with access to my bottom. I heard the jelly being squeezed onto a tissue and could see her swiping the enema nozzle through the clear gel. She took a glob on her finger and swiped that across my butthole as well. It was like an electric shock. It was cold, wet, and wonderful all at once. Without ceremony or preamble, she lifted my right cheek, applied the slick tip, and penetrated me with the nozzle. Keeping the nozzle in place with her one hand, she reached for the hose clamp with the other.

“OK, here it comes,” she said as she opened the clamp with a snap. I felt the rush and immediate urge to get up and go, but I was determined to take as much as I could. I heard her say, “it’s going in fine,” and “about one-third is in so far.” I heard the clamp snap shut and she told me, “roll over onto your back for the next third, it will help you take more of the soap-suds in.” I did so, aware I was semi-erect from the procedure. She ignored Mr. Johnson and re-opened the clamp when I was on my back, knees drawn up and feet flat on the bed.

“OK, it’s going again. You’re doing fine. Breathe, breathe.” I was visibly cramping, but she showed no signs of letting up. “Deep breaths, take deep breaths and it will pass.” She snapped the clamp one more time. “Just a little more and we’ll be done,” she said. “Roll up onto your right side and we’ll finish the bag.” I rolled over and she re-started the flow. I was feeling pretty urgent but she kept saying, ”just a little more, you’re almost there.”

I saw her reach up with her hand and weigh the bag, judging how much was remaining. “Just a little more.” She squeezed the bag to get the last few ounces down the hose. “That’s all,” she said, closing the clip. “You should try to hold it for a few minutes to let it work.”

You would have had more success asking the Mississippi to stop flowing South for a few minutes. I was already in flight, pausing only to take the nozzle out of my backside. I was rewarded with glorious relief when I reached the toilet.

She waited until the initial downpours had passed before entering the bathroom with the deflated and limp bag in hand. She ran the water and rinsed the soap out of the girly pink bag, and just when I thought she was through, she started filling the bag again. “Once is never enough,” she said, “We’ll do a couple of more to make sure you’re cleaned out.”

During the rinse that followed, and the ‘insurance’ enema that followed that, I did get the lecture on adding fiber in my meat & potatoes diet. I had to swear that I would get more exercise in my sedentary job, and eat more vegetables. She had me swallow acidophilus tablets between the enemas to restore the intestinal flora I had lost due to the enemas. I was warned I would be back on the bed with that hose up my butt if I didn't’t take better care of my colon.

Gee, I hope so.